This is it
by ginvael
Summary: When you understand, that you can't help your beloved brother - it s much more painful than your own death. Actually it s a translation from Russian, because original fanfic has been written by me in Russian. Please, let me know about my mistakes, I would be very grateful!


_Everything is stolen, betrayed, sold,_

 _Wing of Black Death flashed,_

 _Everything is gnawed by sorrow,_

 _Why is it light for us?_

There can be eternal quarrels about Fёanor's creations, but the most durable of all his creations was a chain consisted of seven links – seven sons of his. It is difficult to describe with words these relations which were formed between those eldar: nothing is stronger than their affection to each other. Even being split in "groups" they loved each other with that very love, which is difficult to see somewhere else.

And they also had mutual responsibility. That council of feanorians seemed to be crazy: how was it possible to raise their hands on a kin? Again? Then that heavy silence after Celegorm's assurance of necessity of attack was broken by Curufin.

\- You are my brother. And if it is the way to void – I will step in it with you.

Сurufin loved Celegorm more than others. Reasons of that union he couldn't understand – it just was like that. And he really was ready to die for his elder brother. Always. Never mind, who is right.

And now they were sitting together near the pile of firewood haven`t been transformed into a fire. Maybe feanorings didn't want to be noticed; maybe they hid their faces from everyone, especially eyes, even from each other. The silence was broking by noise of stone sharpening the sword: Celegorm was preparing. He sharpened his sword, preparing for next day, because it was much more important for him than for everybody sitting there. It was not a surprise: he had waited too long.

And Celegorm had changed a lot. Had changed after that misfortune with Luthien. Curufin, who had never left him since that time not for a day, of course noticed this. The beautiful face has turned to be sterner and more callous; eyes, which had shone with happiness and frolic, emitted only rancor and something like fatigue. Feanoring was more rude and silent. The Crafter couldn't recognize in this elda his elder brother, who had laughed with small Irisse, played with Huan, gone to a battle with a smile on his mouth. Atarinke reprobated himself for being unable to help brother. Beren and Luthien had been dead for some years, but Celegorm kept exhaust himself. However, Curvo knew what the reason was. The son of mortal man and Luthien was still alive, and Celegorm was obsessed with an idea to meet him. It was the reason for that crusade to Doriath. And, of course, there was the Curse.

The Curse was more important to Curufin. For the sake of it he had lost his son and had a panic fear to lose brothers. The severity of the Curse grinded him, but he still believed that their path is correct and true. Recently he stayed with Turko all the time, as trying to keep him safe and quite far away from some silly actions.

Here it was, morning. Here it was, dawn. Curvo hadn't had even a short nap. It would be a difficult day. With a sigh Curufin put on his braided mail of black metal with the family sign on it and checked his sword in scabbard. It was time to go. Feanorians hugged each other. Who could know, what was prepared for that day?

Each brother had his own squad. Everything painfully reminded about Alqualonde. The only difference was that he hadn't had that fear of losing Celegorm. After short nod of Maedhros two squads merged in one. Curvo jumped on a horse to quickly chaise his brother, who had already departed.

It was difficult to look at the Hunter without sorry. He seemed to be just a shadow of himself in past. Even his eyes, which had always been lively, were cold and senseless. Curufin wanted to say something, but not a word crossed his mind. They seemed to be odd and inappropriate.

Then it was too late. The battle began. Curufin wasn't counting how many enemies he killed, he was walking upon heads, corps, covered by blood. Was it his or not? The sword pierced flesh, elves fall, as grass under the oblique, and that situation was about both sides, but it didn't matter to feanarion. He had his brother's head as a beacon where to go, he cut his way to the elder brother, and he was ready to cover his back. The aim was to reach him, not to lose him from sight… Curufin didn't know where the others were, he saw only Turko, who was single against four rivals, and hurried up for helping. Having wiped sweat from his forehead, Curvo noticed, that he is covered in blood. Memories of Alqualonde again crossed his mind, with all its screaming and atmosphere of death. Red sea, red ships… Curvo hit someone – brother was closer and closer. He needed his help, for sure. There was no time for delay.

One of Celegorm's rivals took off his helmet. It was not a difficulty to recognize that high black-haired knight. Turko froze for an instant, but then continued scramble. True frenzy throbbed in him. Curufin didn't want to interrupt the battle between two sworn enemies. And he also knew that Celegorm wouldn't be backstabbed while he was fighting with the King of Doriath.

Curvo was going further and further, feeling underfoot not ground, but corps. There were Noldor, there were Sindar.

Evening came. Dusk looked like blood. It was really difficult to keep going forward; Curvo supposed that there were some imaginary weights, which were tied to his legs. Maybe Curufin had been injured? He felt nothing. Stood still for a moment – Celegorm plunged the sword into Dior's flesh and he reeled. The Crafter wanted to take a step forward, but it was too late.

The sword struck in the very center of the eight-final star of Feanor on his back. Curvo felt burning inside, some strange pain. The sword was taken out. Curufin thought about death quite often and he wished he could see the face of his murderer – no way… Assassin of the feanorian quickly carried on his way.

The battle around him was in full swing, and Curufin kneeled. Distance between him and his brother was very small, tiny… The elder brother was strong, he won… Celegorm would avenge him, each murdered noldo, the Silmarill, Nargothrond and Tyelpe, who had turned his back to them. Curufin even didn't try to creep – he was just standing on his knees and bleeding. He saw his own blood but did nothing.

Injured Dior also was bleeding. He doubled up, trying to close his wound in his stomach. There was a loud laugh of Celegorm, strange, mad and furious, that was heard over the battlefield. Curvo also smiled.

It turned out to be vain.

Dior rose and struck. It was his last force, last effort, and last will. The son of Luthien raised his sword and made a cut from shoulder to loin, then his sword fell and so did Dior. Feanorian stopped laughing. He swayed and fell down.

Curufin couldn't yield. He could only wheeze desperately. The Crafter crawled, gliding in the dust and the blood. There was no sorrow for himself in Curvo – but his beloved brother had just fallen down. When he had been left without mother, wife, father, son, Curufin found his place near his older brother. Always trying to protect him, he stayed with him every day, shared with him both grief and happiness, which was quite a rare thing after Dagor Bragollah, when they had to leave Himlad. He could quell with his anger and he helped him in everything. And he knew that such relations were mutual. He knew, that connection between them is the most durable thing ever been created.

The Crafter crawled without feeling any pain. Wound was nothing comparing to the loss. The soul and the heart cried. Turko would never ride his horse, would never laugh, and would never drink wine… Or he was still alive? Everything mixed in Curvo's head, creating a mess, the battle was for him weird and insane. Savvy betrayed him, always clever and witty.

That was the first time when he cried. Tears streamed from his eyes when he fell exhausted and held out his hand to the body of the beloved brother. Curufin reached brother's beautiful blond hair, dirty with blood, and in that very moment he died.

They were found like that: three knights lying together. Caranthir also was nearby. Someone saw, what had happened, and knew the truth, someone decided to embellish, telling that Dior took three sons of Feanor with him. But it didn't make the grief of both four brothers and Tyelpe easier. It didn't make sorrow of both Nerdhanel and Curufin's wife easier. However, maybe, in the Mandos' Halls, where there was no way for living, three brothers relieved, since they would never ever lose each other.


End file.
